


Tainted Love

by LegendofMajora



Series: Twist and Pull [2]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mild Language, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 19:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2744708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendofMajora/pseuds/LegendofMajora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Learning to love means forget. Forget the pain of wounds inflicted and forget that Shizuo doesn't call because maybe he's given up on Izaya's games. It's not supposed to hurt like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tainted Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twistedlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedlove/gifts), [AsbestosXposure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosXposure/gifts).



True to his word, Shizuo doesn't speak to Izaya for days.

It's okay in the beginning: slowly pulling himself back up from shakily standing and afraid of every shadow (hates how twisted his mind has become) to slowly working again. He reads emails, accepts a job request or two that lets him stay in his apartment, (practicality is the reason, nothing more) and listens to Namie's constant bitching on the phone. Almost like everything's back to normal and there are only moments when he's in bed unable to sleep when he can't pretend the memories aren't there.

As the days drag on nothing can prepare him for the loneliness. Like a curse it's a feeling he can't get enough of especially now, when Izaya hasn't seen Shizuo in days. They've been separated since Shizuo up and left him on the couch and nothing has passed between them. Izaya doesn't want to admit that it's hopeful when he checks one phone—his main one—every hour. Hours turn to half hours and then minutes to seconds, though what he's looking for never comes. With the days fading into night and waking up again with no sleep behind him Izaya's starting to realize that maybe Shizuo won't come back. Not a pretty thought process down the road of sleepless nights and dark images that lurk, but it's all he has to remember. The admission of saying something's wrong—that he's _lonely—_ is too much to do for one who still has pride. Or what shreds of it remain clutched in his fists.

Izaya can lie well to everyone else and (not) to himself. Every day of scrolling through emails and ignoring Namie's calls that he's being lazy aren't getting better. He puts on the same show of not caring to anger Namie and while it's hilarious he knows at one point he can't stop thinking. Thinking about Shizuo, that is. Not the touch of his hands on skin or the way his heart starts racing when it's not excitement. It is the cold, ugly twist and pull of cold-cut steel tongues and crushing back whatever emotional control slips through the cracks of exhaustion. Sleep evades him at the back of his eyelids and he dreams of the days where he doesn't remember never falling asleep. It's the ticking clock on the wall, silent and really on his bedside table when he looks up from his bed, too tired to go in to work today.

He can't love Shizuo, after all. Much too complicated and going too fast down the drain like the blood in the shower and when he bends—pop go the stitches. The irony is he starts laughing, forcing a chuckle that becomes too genuine not to bring him to lean against the wall. Laughing, like this is a fucking game and it's all it ever has been and now he's realizing it (when it's already) too late. Shizu-chan may be a monster, he tries to catch his breath, but Izaya is a broken toy. And no one wants a broken toy that's been smashed to pieces and the stitches break in the shower. Sometimes they pull and twist and snap and it's like him, now comparing himself to the thick black stitches holding stab wounds together—one is over his heart. Not deep enough; tearing muscle and veins when he was struggling and gasping for air around the hands ripping out his throat. He wonders, waking in a half-sleep that permeates after asphyxia when it's going to end and by the time he escapes, he doesn't know that this is only the beginning. Blood still oozes and splashes against the walls when he tears and pulls, twisting the skin inflamed already and a simple pull with the rough cuts of his fingers and it breaks whatever resolve still left.

It's still dark out after his shower. Tick tock, he never falls asleep anymore five days later. Instead of healing, his injuries seem to get worse. One of them oozes something disgusting and yellow—make it two, reaching for the first-aid kit—and it hasn't been any better since day three. In his robe that's under the illusion everything's alright, the cuts down his right arm grow like the shadows on the walls. Not purposely, but everything has a reason and there's simply no cause without effect. He should know, after days and hours counting down the seconds of thinking he's asleep and never getting over it. Pathetic, weak, and stupid, really, so why is his brain divided in half after the punch to the head six days ago? How many weeks has it been? Izaya loses count and hasn't kept track in boredom and waiting—anticipating for—longer than he should be. Tick tock, the time's ticking away and slips through his fingers like the blood on the bathroom walls.

Sharp breaths tug at his lips, groaning when the first shock of pain comes from touching disinfectant to a puckering knife wound and the curving threads of broken stitches not meant to get wet and biting on his lips to keep the cry from balling up and falling. He remembers the touch of fingers like knives on his skin, deliberate and careful with the first pricks of blood leaking through—stop that. Not the time to remember now and it's too much effort to pick himself back up when falling apart. Pieces and chunks clatter to the floor and remain dust-covered in loneliness and the silence of the walls reaching in to steal his voice away. During the second rinse of antiseptic his eyes blur again but instead of fading away, it melts onto his cheeks with warm coldness practiced not out of habit. But of experience. Out of body, never quite out of mind when the memories come creeping back to stitch back every popped wound.

He starts to bleed after accidentally tearing off the thin scab over the wound. Surprisingly it has held up well for however long he's been not himself, but the alcohol of the antiseptic rips off the skin with gentle jerks and it's strangely sad how reminiscent it is of when his pants are tugged down by dirty hands. Exhaling with a sigh, Izaya tries to think of something else and forces himself to grit his teeth past the stinging ripples of cleaning the wound. Blood comes in rivulets the same way they pour from his nose and forehead after being cracked against the ground enough times to warrant a concussion and one punch to kiss a bruise into his skin. How loving of them to leave a parting gift if the thick heat of blood, semen, and saliva trailing down his inner thighs isn't enough.

Suck in breaths and (remember where he is right now) resist the urge to panic. Shinra may be a crack doctor but he's very observant, and so he knows Izaya can't hide the bouts of nervousness that get past his shattered defenses. Which reminds him that Shinra's number has lit up his phone a couple times, but he doesn't answer. It's not business, so it's not important. He knows by now that Shinra's worried and while he shouldn't bother, it's supposed to be providing entertainment of how to twist Shinra's concern and manipulate with his breaking fingers spotted with black and blue until he's satisfied. Funny how things don't quite work like that. Not especially when his own fingers are bent to breaking like the bends of being in a relationship's first leg and they're already gone. He's been bending over for everything—a shell of himself slipping under his blood and covered in semen that hasn't and will never be his on an old casting couch. It smells like cotton and burning _seething_ anger.

Only to realize that he's scrubbing the wound too hard and its bleeding is increasing in flow. Taking away the soaked cotton ball he opts hold a needle in shaking fingers only to realize that he doesn't have the precision to pull broken wounds back together. Bandages on his skin have to do instead and he sticks it on, wrapping his torso (careful of the fingerprints—can't touch those) until black and blue turn into clear and sickly simple white. Shizuo's fingers are a stark contrast to the pale of Izaya's skin, knowing them intimately as a darker tan color from days of sunshine brighter than the bleach blond strands of hair on his head. Not the grimy grubby fingers and hands of dirt and hot sweat that tastes like iron and slicks on his skin with each thrust in and out of his shattered pride. Ego still intact he can fake the smile as if to brush off the angry shouts of drunks and pretend it doesn't hurt when they want _more, more, more._ Only now he's bleeding in front of himself and there are no arms to wrap around him (safe, remember?) and the urge to give up the game of silence is all too tempting. White is turning red with leaking blossoms of bad decisions and shaking hands in the consequence of knowing how to fix it.

But he can't. It's not how an informant—a god brought to his knees—plays any game where the beast makes the first move. The game becomes more interesting when love (a word that Izaya can use freely without meaning anything at all) means trust and ache when Shizuo says he loves (why say it like that?) Izaya and the look in brown eyes is clear that he means it. So why then does Izaya choke up and can't force out the usual response— _I lov—_ without gagging on the words that don't sound right? Maybe it is the first stages of denial right before his feet are losing feeling with deadening nerves freezing cold and his heart pounds too loudly and threatens to break his ribs. Which leads to fleeing as fast as he can because the words of love and sincerity are foreign to everything he knows and like karma he finds himself surrounded with _hate hate hate_ which might be _love_ because he's supposed to love all humans. Not like the way (he uses love like it has a right to be thrown around and played with) of drugs, tied down, and fingers ranging to penises on his skin and grasping and groping and plunging deep into whatever hole available. Like common trash is how Izaya is to his humans that he loves so dearly—does it mean he loves them more than Shizuo because they hurt and burn and beat flesh to black and blue? Although now the bruises are ugly yellow and green from his eye and jaw to the ones down his legs shaped like hands.

There is the distinction of several different options of where to go from finishing the last scrubbing bandages of leaking rips in his flesh. One wants to not feel crowded and drowning in his apartment while skipping work again and just—never mind. Two means pushing away the anger and frustration mixed with humiliation that has been flickering in his head and trickling to the clenching tightness of his chest when he breathes so he can just focus and move on. Three is insanity—get drunk and forget with the bottom of a bottle as an aspiration to a night of sleep and not staying awake with nightmares and memories. Too bad they're all dangerous in one extreme to the next in a spectrum of wanting to never remember the days before and stop existing for a while. Living is too difficult, too. Because existing only qualifies for forgetting that Shizuo has a key to Izaya's apartment and Izaya has all copies of Shizuo's apartment keys along with the other useless details. Simply move on from each email to the next and if he forgets to breathe once in a while, then it means more chances to sleep when he passes out (the phantom ache never leaves) for a maximum of an hour.

Fighting with Shizuo used to be so easy with simple barbs because Shizuo never thinks much—just angers himself with petty or witty comments from Izaya. It's the thrill of the chase that Izaya seeks in the beginning before chasing turns too boring and catching sounds fair when they kiss for the first time and Shizuo's hands are in his hair. He isn't sure what brings on the sudden rush of a high he gets whenever Shizuo touches him or lips press to every inch of his skin but he starts to develop an addiction right under his own careful preventative steps. Never get too close. Never get hurt and wait for the day to come when Shizuo realizes that Izaya is nothing more than annoying and petty because he's childish and when the monster grows up he'll see that Izaya is too easy to read. Everything becomes the same and then Izaya can move on past the games with as little damage as possible but with the possibility of Shizuo leaving him in the past, it starts to sting and burn a hole into his chest. Night after night of thinking about leaving—lying entrapped in Shizuo's arms and it's blazing hot—he can't bring himself to leave and forget in the morning. Each time he blames it on how strong Shizuo's grip is (knowing fully well that it isn't around him, giving the choice and he can't have too many choices at once) and tries not to think about it between kisses without toothpaste in the morning.

Plastered in white bandages with hair drying and a bathrobe growing on him, Izaya can feel the twinge of pain that comes with shifting his legs or the burn of moving his stomach. His eye still throbs with his jaw and the swelling has gone down tremendously, but it doesn't stop the aggressive reminders of what— _who—_ inflicted them. With some straining stitches and popped ones covered in layers of bandages, Izaya has to remind himself that it isn't going to matter what he does when he pulls clothes over a naked—shameful—body as quickly as he can and starts the day with a phone pulled from a familiar coat pocket. He may be inside, but the fur isn't ruined on this one and it is calm with the scent of his apartment. Only ruined with the hint of cinnamon and cigarette smoke—Shizu—

The black cellphone in his hand (strictly personal with Shinra's number on the side for personally-not-really to more of getting to Celty in an alternative method or requiring Shinra to patch him up) starts to ring with a chirping tune of some pop song that's been stuck in his head since two days before Shizuo says—"Orihara Izaya." And he knows the number is Celty's, which is odd, and even more so when she actually calls. "Although I'm sure you have something to say that may or may not be worth my interest, why are you calling me?" Celty's headless neck must be billowing smoke at the factual remark and Izaya can pretend to be his normal haughty self before (Shizuo) deciding to give Celty a job for bothering him. "It's not like you can talk."

Something clicks. _"She's calling because she's concerned, Izaya."_ Shinra's voice suddenly comes on Celty's phone and the urge to hang up is trembling beneath his fingers. Of course Shinra's going to take advantage of calling Izaya when the informant hasn't been bothered to return all of the missed calls (and none of them, surprisingly or not, are from Shizuo) littering his other pink phone meant for more business and medical calls. One can never (informants, mainly) have too many phones. _"And you haven't been answering me. So tell me what's going on, at least. Are you doing alright?"_ And there goes Shinra's parental tone that he's using to impress Celty or something of the like. Izaya rolls his eyes without much concern as to being the pedestal for Shinra's inflated ego in order to possibly take the chance to use it against him later. Go back to being the Izaya that everyone despises and not _loves_ because gods can only love humans. Not the other way around, he's learned.

"Shinra," Izaya drawls with a dry tone and not bothering to turn on charm when it is this idiot he's dealing with that doesn't ever learn to mind his own business. Stitching knife wounds and cleaning blood from dirt and grime is all he's good for as long as he never says a word and prescribes sedatives mixed in painkillers that Izaya remembers are on his nightstand. "Are you taking advantage of Celty because I haven't been paying attention to your nosy calls? I'm flattered, really. But you didn't need to waste your time." One twist of the hand and fingers that _don't_ tremble pluck out two pills and swallow them down dry. The bitter taste is too—reminiscent of white slime and metal burning his throat when he swallows over the tongue and—much to handle and he grimaces with a forceful shake of his head to stay grounded.

" _Quit playing around, Izaya. You know why I've been calling."_ Shinra blows a muted sigh into the phone as if it's going to change Izaya's mind. No, it won't. _"We want to know how you're doing and..."_ he doesn't finish the sentence when Izaya's thoughts are putting the worst together and forming coherent sentences over the remaining repeats of flesh and blood and shrieking that tears from his throat in memory. There is something off about the bathrobe he lays out on his bed to hang up. It reeks of cinnamon and cigarettes, but Izaya hates the both of those and Shizu—he hasn't been around for about a month, always insisting that Izaya goes to his apartment.

"Don't finish that sentence, Shinra." Izaya lowers his voice and it sounds more like he is talking to himself with the skittish thoughts that flee from the front of his mind only temporarily. At least it is enough to keep thinking and focus on Shinra's noisy call and pretend to keep on moving with the day while feeling disgusting enough to take another shower. After all, with the first one so rudely interrupted with the ugly pop of stitches and the spray of blood from a particularly nasty one he never spends enough time in the hot spray to learn how to forget the feeling of dirt and grime and unwanted fingers. Not that Shinra needs to know. "And you should know that I don't share my personal matters." The forgotten taste of flesh from a delirious bite in a flurry of panic starts to layer on Izaya's teeth and it reeks of blood and regret.

Shinra sighs. _"Don't make this difficult for the both of us, Izaya-kun. You know I'm not trying to be rude but you're starting to make Celty worry with how long you've been out of touch. I have no idea how you're doing—how you're coping too. That's all I'm asking for."_ It almost sounds as if he cares—Shinra shouldn't bother with the damage that has been done and every time Izaya blinks it repeats again and the phantom aches rise from the grave of flesh buried in each and every mark on skin. All beautifully ripped apart and stitched back together again. Good as new and buried alive in a bag of flesh and a mind pulling itself apart with the ache throbbing between his legs that digs deeper when he shifts or the eye that doesn't fully open with the swelling around it.

"Don't bother, Shinra." Izaya snaps coldly—he means it, no matter the tone of his voice because it's his job. That is all he does—drive his humans away because they will only hurt themselves for the presence of an ugly defamed god soured with muck and spilled hot body fluids either his or theirs. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do." He knows there will be a protest and quickly he turns off the call to avoid the confrontation and the excessive questions when he knows that very well he's (not okay) just _fine_ and so what if kidnapping and rape doesn't affect him. He's a god shiny with slick sweat, blood, tears (not his not his not), and the curling boil of when one round is finished and dripping down his legs like blood but warm and salty when it catches in the raw flesh of a leg wound. The wounds inside don't need to matter when they bleed semen and thick hot blood that is his.

" _Izaya, wait—!"_ Click and the call goes dead, leaving a dial tone and Izaya tsks with a sigh when he puts it away, forgetting about the bathrobe of cinnamon and cigarettes and the importance of not thinking too much when it's becoming an addictive habit. Touches and other luxuries from rough hands never meaning to hurt are only fantasies now—and maybe he starts to realize it when his fingers dig into the soiled bandages around his ribs. Blood in his mouth and flesh between his teeth (only trying to help and there he goes, ruining _everything_ ) when it starts to make sense in the dour realization that everything that he ruins isn't as it is perceived to be. Because the bathrobe that lingers on his shoulders despite the shirt and pants he pulls on feels like warmth that doesn't reach his skin and too rough for his normal taste. It's still new, which explains the texture and the smell—

The new fabric is in his hands and thrown across the room into the open bathroom where he doesn't dare to pick it up now. He doesn't like the sinking feeling in his hands that move over his eyes that are mismatched with swelling bruises and both equally stinging with saltwater that catches on his eyelashes. It's not supposed to be like this and he keeps fighting—don't do this he can't do this—the stupid feelings of whatever emotions are supposed to be that keep picking him apart when he's only attempting to sew himself back together and pretend they don't exist. It's how he copes with the very real pain and very annoying strain of emotions that rip and pull and tear when he thinks that he has them all under his control for every pawn on a square only to find out that it's the opposite when he hears the first sounds of what suspiciously sounds like a whimper caught in a moan crawling up his throat. Whatever Shinra's lecture on being human means absolutely— _nothing—_ and that's how it's supposed to be.

So when he sinks to his knees and a flinch fires up his spine from the rips of several popping wounds and scabs too light to hold down the blood, the feeling of shame is only the beginning of why he isn't meant for human contact if it only leads to pain and humiliation. No one will care and he's not supposed to remember the way stupid emotions feel when trying and failing—again—to block them out and keep going because life doesn't bend that way for the humans that aren't meant to exist. He takes chances and he breaks them with his own fingers, watching as they crumble and only when his are taken from him does he get a taste of what he's supposed to deserve. Because nothing is important to Izaya when he's unemotional (stupidly out of control) and cruel to the humans (unaware and unsure and anxious) he means to love. _Love_ is such a tricky word: easy to throw around and make it stick to whatever blood, sweat, deniable tears, or dirty semen that clogs Izaya's wounds and then let the salt rub in. Only as he deserves it.

It's just the same as the bathrobe lying on the floor is Shizuo's.

_~_

Letting go means forget. If it takes days of accidentally on purpose overdosing on sedatives, then so be it. If that's what it takes to forget then it doesn't matter what happens next. Only his mind seems to be remaining intact besides a body that heals with bruises fading but the gnarled appearance of wounds that won't close. Possibly from all the minor stitches popping at one point when they're not waterproof and Shinra doesn't know—Izaya knows how to stitch them back. It's just that he can't seem to keep his fingers still or grit his teeth through the push and pull of a needle through skin which reminds of the same slicing motion of a knife plunging or cutting. And in time it carves names and hands and days of forgetting who he is for one mindless game of cat and mouse with emotions that are severe and imaginary at the best of the worst. Of course Izaya knows how easy the concept is of forgive (what is there to forgive? Himself?) and forget (everything—hands, tongues, fingers, bitter laughing and the angry dull gaze of brown eyes to _pity_ ) to function on his own. He doesn't need (Shizuo) anything to forget and act as if nothing has happened when it really hasn't. All just a deluded little game and now it's over. The end.

But in a cruel twist and pull of fate that jerks him along, Izaya doesn't push out the panicking thoughts and the angry screaming that may or may not force him awake only after he's just fallen asleep. And if he clings to the empty side of his bed looking for a heat source and shivering under layers of blankets then it means nothing at all. It's only moving along. Part of the process of forgetting, he tells himself on the nights that it is too much to fall back asleep and with the edgy thoughts of panic invading he can only sit and stare. Not afraid to move—not him. Yet the concept is entirely avoided as he tries not to think and not to feel when he has the feeling of eyes on him and laughter rings in his ears when he whimpers in his sleep—no, that's not right. Izaya is simply a god and not a human and therefore emotions do not (compute restart restart end now) apply to him. Panic attacks or whatever Shinra calls them (and he keeps calling no matter what time it is or the many times Izaya ends the annoying chirp of his phone) are only figments of his bored imagination when he doesn't get out much. Interestingly enough it's much harder to leave his apartment than it looks. Just down to his business office with Namie's unamused looks to work for a day or however long it takes and sometimes he doesn't go back to the empty apartment waiting for him. As long as he can work himself into sleep he doesn't care.

(On his phone there are no calls from—) So far work hasn't been anything exciting. No jobs that mean moving around much as if Shiki-san expects lesser of him and his clients are either boring or the money isn't enough. Surely there are jobs he can do from his computer which happen to be most of them, but it's all boring. And when the temptation comes to skip out on work and head on the streets the reminder of _maybe not_ slams into his face and he elects not to risk his mood. Namie's certainly curious with all the extra time he spends in the office but doesn't say much than the blunt and usual request to leave and stop bothering her with his presence. To which Izaya usually comes up with something sarcastic in retort or passive aggressive to match her own fashion, but nothing comes to mind. And he's beginning to think the silence is starting to make her think she's going crazy, which is interesting to study if anything would be.

Except nothing is. Not human watching or making lives twist to his own demands and watch the reactions. As fun as it sounds, nothing has been remotely interesting in terms of keeping Izaya's interest past the accidental slips into recordings of cold cement floors and hands all over him, groping and pulling him away from reality until he forces himself back. The lack of sleep never helps either but when he closes his eyes it's hard to fall asleep with smug faces and wicked grins run hands and tongues over broken skin and push in and out with the slap of skin growing louder when he starts to scream—and then he wakes up with the sound of screaming in his ears. Lonely is the empty side of the bed and maybe the almost obsessive checking of his phone dwindling down to fifteen glances that he doesn't notice add to the count of missed calls from Shinra. Nothing will make him answer the annoying inquiries that Shinra's bound to bring up despite his best intentions when those aren't enough.

He's starting to feel like his mind is gone at this point. There is no progress he's making besides the menial jobs that swirl and buzz in his head like sludge but never evading the pull of the vicious cycle of regret-shame-fear-agony-pain throbbing back to his mind and then coursing through his veins instead of blood. At times his heart stops in the midst of forgetting to breathe and calm down when he can't differentiate between reality and his own head and while he comes to consciousness snippets of his last conversation with Shizuo come to mind. Weak as a human, the pain in his eyes—all just guesses and how would Shizuo know anything, leaving so suddenly—just a child is all he is. No love because that kind of love isn't available for monsters of any kind, which is what gods are in the first place. And with how much it starts to ache following the first dull throb evolving to a sharp echo of pain that digs deeper into his spine and latches onto his organs he can only tell himself over and over again it's not real. Nothing he feels is real because he doesn't have emotions that are worth being real, or realistic at all because he can't (deserve, use, abuse and ache when he falls) benefit from such petty things.

The anger is the only thing he knows. Pain he can feel when it's physical and blames the wounds scattered about for his temporary scapegoat. Disappointment scrapping into a cheap knockoff of whatever comes when he knows that he's fucked up and it's his fault for being so _stupid_ and petty that he makes himself suffer with the childish reactions of what doesn't exist because he says so. Hands and skin and sweat and semen aren't real. They don't exist. It's all in his head filled with useless human reactions when he's not worthy of being a pathetic human. Lying in a pile of garbage and bleeding to death when he already is trash and the irony is that Shizuo finds him with a philosophical metaphor of a joke that Izaya can think of, but he's furious and Izaya can understand that. He is a beast, after all.

Back to the present. It's only three days after the last phone call from Shinra he picks up and he doesn't answer his personal phone anymore. Paranoia is starting to set in with his other phones—no reason at all except for the bruising shadow in his jaw—and he chooses his work carefully. Double triple checks to be sure who is calling which phone. After a night of no sleep (once again as it seems to be the norm) Izaya's lying awake in his bed, cold and empty and his sheets feel the same. Already settling into the new routine never feels old because the same cold and silence without a heartbeat are still surprising him when he doesn't miss the angry slaps and kicks to his face before he falls—and then the sensations of hate and anger are starting to sprout and mix together in a dangerous combination. Wide awake in the morning with an erratic heartbeat he can only think of the repeating possibilities today has to offer. Shower—he needs to wash the dirt and grime away before it tattoos his skin permanently.

Stumbling into his bathroom (carefully stepping over the bathrobe that has been lying in a folded pile near the door) he can feel the ache of eyes and dulled conversations turning south when he pulls off his shirt. His brain is aching with the throb of a new headache sprouting from between his eyes where he sees the yellow-brown bruises fading across his torso. Ribs slightly poking out from thin skin and a bandage ripping off the flesh of an unfinished stitch job he doesn't feel alive anymore. Not with the breaths that expand and deflate and stretch the wounds that twist and curve around him when his hands tremor when he pulls off his shorts.

It's a painful process.

He can take a bath just as easily as taking a shower, but baths don't let the dirty water drain when it's tainted with the foul grime on his skin that keeps resurfacing like oil on water. Blood mixes in and pushes beneath the layers of soap and bubbles that hide exactly what he can't bear to look at and deny the human parts of himself that burn with hot blood and thick with fluid—it all reminds him of shame. The shameful dirty part that climaxes when fingers leave burning trails of running blood and the fact that he _enjoys_ the release pulled from him with two fingers and when the groan bubbles in his throat it catches on a sob of desperation. When he doesn't look in the mirror he's never looking down because below means remembering and ugly and disgusting humiliation when he gasps and tears burn his eyes when he falls back down from the high of a mountain. He's not meant to be shameful of his own body when it's more or less attractive by human standards and yet he can't stand looking in the mirror. So he keeps his eyes anywhere but on himself. It's not safe if he looks and most of the time it takes squeezing his eyes shut to turn on the water. No pale skin and ugly fading bruises or the burning touch of Shizuo he's been craving with the rising steam that doesn't wash off the touch of others marking his skin.

Hot spray sends a shiver in recoil down his spine when hands move over his chest to cover himself. It takes a second of sobering self-awareness to ease his fingers from digging into the pinkish cuts from the same knife which happens to be his own. Maybe not by his fingers—it's more or less all hazy with the minimum of sedatives—but he remembers the press of his switchblade into his ribs that slides underneath his skin and cuts him to ribbons. Focus on breathing is what Shinra says when he forgets to think and the trembling in his fingers is not only under his skin. Izaya feels the rush of water on his back, set at a lower pressure so it won't beat away the rest of a flake that is nailed to the ground with the weight of heavy (emotion— _shame_ humiliationanger _sorrow_ ) reality burrowing into the ground. One, two, three, and the heat is only above his skin when he wets his hair, feeling the hot paths carving into his skin and remembering what it feels like to not have dirty fingers replacing careful warm ones.

Outside he doesn't notice the fact that he's not the only one with a key to the apartment tucked away in the dark morning of too early to start pretending to be alive. Inside is the world hidden in steam to forget and erase everything while the blood starts to trickle from torn scabs. It mixes and falls with the water trickling down pale skin and he wants to close his eyes and be blank—afternoons turning into evenings of lying in the arms of one monster—from thinking too much and again when all that comes to mind is—butterfly kisses and fingers in his hair when Shizuo thinks he's sleeping—the same repeating slap of flesh on flesh and blood streaking between his legs when he starts ( _crying_ ) to feel the burn. And this time the plop of tears falling in tandem with water from him and the nozzle behind him he can blame it on the fact that there is soap in his eyes when the bottle isn't even open yet and between his legs starts to throb whenever he tries to bend.

Unaware of the flickering light of one black phone that continues to turn itself on no matter how many times Izaya presses the power button, it's a personal call contact that lights up the screen as it lies on his bed, buzzing with the hum of an inquiry unvoiced. The hush the shower means he won't hear it and probably won't bother to check until he feels like being alive is easier than it is now. And he doesn't know—there's a first—that the calling is connected to the phone that buzzes with a ringing noise coming from weary speakers when the lock on his front door clicks and with eased silence the door slides open. Last to know will be him when feet prod carefully on hardwood floor with belonging solely to the one of the very few (if any at all) who know that this apartment is no ordinary apartment to a strictly not ordinary informant. Shinjuku is much quieter than other cities, especially Ikebukuro and therefore the means of knowing who lives in the bought apartment is rarely known or spoken of—no neighbors present or caring in the slightest. An easy place to hide away when his skin stretches with burns and conduct business matters. Although it isn't like he has done much of anything with the refusal of seemingly ridiculous proposals with nothing entertaining to gain besides a poor offer of money and secrets that he can pick up in a bar. But not the creeping footsteps of shoeless feet sliding against hardwood floor and Izaya doesn't know—catches himself off guard when he's submerged in his own reality of regret and shivering when the pain of blows that have long faded reviving themselves in his subconscious. The outside of the bathroom door is not where hallucinations remain and loneliness locks itself behind the door. Hands twitch, lighting up a cell phone screen as to check for something.

On the bed he notices it—Izaya's cellphone. With a brightened screen and a message of one missed call and the hush of the shower behind a door across the room starts to put the pieces together. Unarmed (not like he really needs them) and exasperated he isn't one to wait for Izaya to answer. But he knows if he tries to be civil (not a monster, Izaya) then Izaya will only ignore him further as he has been, which he's guilty of himself. He's so stupid and he knows it without Izaya telling him and not only erasing himself when he's angry, but when he's supposed to be working this out and not sneaking into a fucking apartment in the early morning. But he can't wait any longer when his conscience weighs too heavily on him and it sinks with each passing day of silence.

It's his fault. So he has to do this. And with the door locked to the bathroom, he moves to jingle the knob, relying on an old trick he's learned from Izaya and hears the lock click and slide under his strength. The door clicks and slowly moves open to crack and allow the building steam to tumble out while the shower continues to run. He's not normally one to do this when in the past maybe they've showered together and he keeps telling himself that this is it—but right now he's nameless and guilty of his own selfish anger which means he can't pretend that he's of any importance when Izaya's clearly locking the bathroom door for a reason. All he can hope, a beast of a human being paired with a god and unsure of his footing, is that he isn't the reason to why the doors are locked and Izaya doesn't want to speak to him. Not that Izaya's the one to blame for his own anger no matter how many times Shinra says to ask _him_ instead of trying to find out from what Shinra's seen. A coward's way out and he knows that he can't pretend that it doesn't hurt (when Izaya hurts more and he knows this) for the both of them.

Stepping inside the humid bathroom, the door moves to close behind himself and Shizuo feels the bitter sting of trespassing (why is he feeling like this when he shouldn't) and guilt starts to trickle in like the moisture collecting on his cooled skin. Izaya's across from him, hidden in the foggy glass of a shower and it's unusual that he's standing instead of soaking in a bath. Shizuo acknowledges that the changes—stinging in his brain and cutting into his fingers that abandon and don't touch the right places—are only certain in what he's seen of bruises and blood which suggests a beating but for much more he can't be sure. What it means to change in their relationship is difficult and (painful agonizing he _hates_ this) to assess it alone feels too selfish. He needs to talk to Izaya and with Izaya as stubborn as he is, this is the only way to grab his attention—he doesn't know; how ironic—and figure out when Izaya is never blunt with anything no matter how much it affects _them._ Not him or Shizuo, but the both of them because damn it this is a relationship and Shizuo isn't going to give up this easily.

"Izaya," Shizuo calls and the words start to wither on his tongue when they roll into thick air. After several moments of silence and while Izaya's name isn't that loud over the rush of the shower, he is starting to think that Izaya doesn't hear him. Logically his next choice is to step closer and try to gain Izaya's attention by another source of means to grab attention and keep it. Hostage—he cringes when the possibilities—feelings and anger until it runs out and he can get to the bloody truth that clogs Izaya's throat. He knows it's there, somewhere. And his own of apologies and never excuses when he's not tricky and slippery like Izaya is won't get him anywhere without Izaya's cooperation. It is how a relationship is supposed to work. With one as strange as theirs, they can at least try and go from there. But _this_ is more than just an argument. It's trust and hurt and excuses that have to be micromanaged into something that comes to compromise and forgiving whatever it is until Shizuo can finally speak to Izaya because he can't stand it when they fight like this. Not this early and not ever when he's trying to keep this together. Keep himself together when all he wants to do is fall apart and be childish (never accept the blame) to do something wrong out of arrogance.

"Izaya, we need to talk." Shizuo comes close to the glass and even as close as he is Izaya doesn't turn to him. Through the thin layer of mist he can see Izaya's back turned to him and there are marked bruises faded into ugly yellows and browns that stand out within one glance. But when Shizuo looks closer he starts to wish he doesn't choose to act without thinking all the time—he's gotten this far in trouble from his own stupidity and _oh—_ Izaya's head is buried in his arm and he's lying against the wall underneath the spray of his showerhead. No wonder he's not paying attention despite Shizuo's trespassing and it's a clear sign that if Izaya doesn't notice Shizuo coming in then he's far too deep in his own thoughts to care. Shizuo swallows this and knows he's done wrong when it comes back as a grim reminder and he has to get through the guilt and the humility of admitting his own wrong.

At second thoughts Shizuo's beginning to think Izaya is asleep, or dangerously close to. Curled in his arm and barely standing against a wall with wet hair and water trailing down him Shizuo can barely notice any movement except the slight swaying on his feet. With little thought to his next action as a bad habit that maybe isn't so bad to break, Shizuo slides the glass door open. And—

He _sees—_

Blood. Oozing from various cuts and the water in the bathtub shape on the floor is tinted pink. There are clean stitches marked with pronounced redness and puffy skin from lack of proper aftercare and some threads are loosened and hanging as if popped open by movements. With the revealing wounds of which can only come from what Shizuo starts to realize is a knife, the pieces start to click slowly but surely in mind while Izaya is completely unaware. Exhausted, Shizuo bets, and probably close to fainting with the sway on his feet.

Words tumble from his mouth in an uttered (it isn't a) cry. "Izaya." The informant, fading bruises and oozing wounds on top of pale skin to pull himself together spins on his feet and startled like a cornered animal he slips on his own feet, paralyzed and eyes widening when he sees Shizuo. As if the guilt hasn't already started to claw at him then Izaya's terrified expression (he's never seen it before and maybe this isn't it but it has to be) is a reintroduction of his own stupidity and selfishness.

"Shizu—" Izaya inhales and grapples for the shower wall with bloodied fingertips stained like the whites of his red eyes that start to match his irises. Shizuo feels it—the cold clawing reception of when he takes in the gore of stitches and wounds and bruises all over Izaya—knowing that he's the one who walked out and that Izaya is left alone to deal with this until his legs travel to the strange knotting of brusies on Izaya's thighs. "Get out!" Izaya's voice pulls him back to reality but only for a little while when everything is moving too fast and Izaya sounds like he's gasping for air and shaking instead of his usual smirk and an invite to join him. This isn't before.

Hands. There are fucking hands on Izaya and they're not Shizuo's because he would _never_ touch Izaya like that. Fingerprints connecting to the vague but printed shapes of hands that are on Izaya's thighs leading inward to the puckering swelling of bruises on Izaya's pelvis when he tries not to look but he sees it all. All over him and the dots on Izaya's neck make too much sense and it's overwhelming how much one can miss when ignoring the details. When it points to the obvious conclusion his brain fires at him there are moments of short-circuited silence when the hands and the marks and the wounds with stitches and oozing blood come together and in the moment they do, they slam _hard_ into Shizuo's head and he reels with several steps back. Horror marring his features and before he can try to register any other process or the _guilt_ and _shame_ on Izaya's face it's all over.

If this hurts to Shizuo when he sees the hands and the anger mixed with shame on Izaya's face then it's ten fucking times worse with what Izaya's going through for a start. Pale and shaking with rage (Shizuo would bet that he is now) Izaya's eyes are wide and his lips pull back in a feral snarl when he's been cornered and he's done for when Shizuo has seen the damage on his skin. He's not—he can't—this isn't happening and why is Shizuo here when he's and he—thought processes shutting down like the morning of garbage piles and biting into Shizuo's shoulder when he doesn't think he remembers. As if it's not insult to injury Izaya tries to defend himself with a condescending remark or something to blatantly insult Shizuo into leaving and maybe forgetting that this ever happened but what he comes up with is nothing as his mouth falls and his jaw locks when his eyes are burning (the same sensations of a breakdown) with _shame_ of all things. He's not okay anymore like before when he can't pretend that it is.

Not with Shizuo looking at him like—broken toy and utterly worthless now—an animal. A beast that has been tamed with violent beatings from hands and feet to metal bars and concrete floors to ripping flesh with knives and taking whatever dignity that remains in shreds. Of course Shizuo doesn't see him as Izaya but as something so useless and red eyed and bare unintentionally in front of him when Izaya could have easily prevented this all if he cared enough to—heart dropping and seizing in his chest it feels oddly reminiscent of when he wakes in Shinra's apartment clothed in what doesn't smell like blood and _them._

"Izaya, wait—!" Shizuo tries to reach him but he's miles away back to hands on his throat and pressing too hard and too deep when he starts to choke and gasp for air. They penetrate and slip into him to push past walls of dignity and by knife or anything else they can take and bend him to their will. Too prideful and too injured to keep screaming when he never opens his mouth to do so and the shame bubbles up in clotting injuries when the mocking begins of dethroning a god to the lowly levels of human and then kicked to the ground. Outcast, abomination, _filth,_ and so aptly named when the metal bar comes down to slam against his head as he chokes up blood with the removal of the fingers around his throat. He thinks he's dying when he dreams if he sleeps yet when his shoulder is pulled out of its socket he can only think of ways to hang himself when it's tied around his throat but his legs are useless when his lower abdomen won't stop bleeding like a shameful bitch in heat. Attack dog tamed and beaten down—they take what isn't theirs and the best part is that they don't give it back—when fingers pull him open from wounds to mouth to throat and threaten to break every single inch of skin if he dares stop the venture of taking everything that makes him an odd combination of human and ostracized god to make him nothing more than beneath the level of scum they are. It works—he thinks sometimes when his thoughts are consuming and the slap of flesh and penetrating— _nonono—_ is blood and semen for lubricant into exhaustion-fueled night terrors when day never comes on a concrete floor swimming pool of his own blood. He never gives in until he sees the sun and gold hair with angry eyes.

Shizuo can't wait for Izaya to snap out of the glazed look in his eyes and when he looks at Shizuo like he isn't anything but a monster—one of _them—_ Shizuo has to defy any morals or whatever comes to place in mind as to block him from fucking this up any more than he already has. It's Izaya who is hurting right in front of him and he'll be damned if he doesn't move into the shower. Pulling Izaya into an embrace and underneath the pattern of warm water raining down as if to bring him back into reality. Shizuo leaves arms free to move and brace against a wall or struggle when Izaya gasps and a pathetic cry bleeds from his throat in the unexpected and unwanted pull of a beast, not a monster, back into reality and away from fever dreams of trauma engraved in his head. His clothes are on—soaking wet now and Izaya is flushing and bleeding and his pants of uncertain trembling echo in Shizuo's ears when he thrashes and demands in a hazed reassurance that he's _fine._ Not that he can convince himself anyway when his vision blurs between dark-blood-Shizuo and he wants to get away and never face the humiliation surging through his veins when his lungs forget to inhale and exhale.

"Izaya, I'm sorry," Shizuo speaks in his ear and when it doesn't register the brute keeps going but he can't be a brute if his hands are gentle and let Izaya push against them only to move back to his head and on his back where a clean patch of skin remains between his shoulder blades. "I'm sorry—shit, I'm a fucking idiot and I just..." Izaya doesn't (can't) hear the rest in between recycling vivid recounts of what it feels like to be torn apart and forced back together with saliva and semen as glue. "They hurt you—fucking monsters raped you and I didn't even fucking care. I was pissed off because of something so stupid and you were the one they tortured and you tried to tell me." Shizuo's comforting tone drops when his voice catches and Izaya can hear the hurt and the guilt in his voice (isn't that only for a fallen god? Monsters need not have guilt) that tugs at him when he fades in and out of interrupted showers and breakdowns. This is happening far too often for his liking. "And all I did was just get angry and ignore you because I'm no better than them." The admission is too much to hear and in the midst of wanting to scream and snarl and run and keep running until he forgets _everything,_ Izaya has to move shaking fingers that tremble and clutch the wet fabric of a T-shirt and hold on tightly with his balance failing. He doesn't want to do this—has to remind himself that Shizuo can't (won't) hurt him.

" _Please,_ Shizu-chan," Izaya interrupts and his voice is low and quiet when he's exhausted and this shouldn't be happening. The hot water is making his stomach roil and his throat burns with nausea. "Just stop. Get out," and he's not entirely present in the swings of vertigo and bile when he moves from the shower to towels wrapping around his body and one in his hair. Sitting against his counter top and Shizuo peels off his own wet clothes, grabbing the folded bathrobe he notices with a curious glance that is heated from sitting on a vent and pulls it on. Izaya's eyes are on the floor and while in the midst of what Shinra calls a panic attack he feels inhuman as he should be—but more empty and full of holes where the steam roles off of his body and stains his towels with blood. Doesn't matter when he doesn't stay long enough in his bathroom to be moving to his bed and he finds himself curling in on himself when he can despite the pain throbbing between his legs.

And Shizuo knows. Knows everything from the kidnapping to the beating to the rape and it's all nothing now when everything starts to crumble and fall like a throne of lies Izaya hasn't felt dead since watching himself die on a warehouse floor. Pretend it doesn't hurt and then when the feelings he can't control go away then they mean nothing at all. But they don't go away and with the passing days of lonely and anger and he can't _love_ Shizuo when he's nothing more than fucked raw and bled dry. Nothing prepares for the numbness that comes at the end of it all like a false ending to maybe get some sleep that doesn't come. Can't do this when he's not anything anymore.

"Izaya," Shizuo's voice breaks in like background noise but a careful touch of fingers on Izaya's bruised cheek with the gentleness a monster can't possibly possess (Shizuo confuses him far too often for his own liking) which is frustrating and it only makes everything hurt even more. All the clogged emotions and other garbage filling his brain and every reservoir remaining plugged with anger and shame and everything else mixed into what he's not supposed to feel because he's a dethroned god and it's not fair that measly humans can take his title. After all, they're the ones who gave it to him.

He's not crying. Not when fingertips brush his eyelid and he starts to feel the surge of need to be touched and the angry denial that he shouldn't when it's only going to hurt. Towels secured around his body he can still feel Shizuo's burning gaze of self-resentment and most of the time it doesn't make much sense. "Izaya, are you okay?" It can't be fair that he sounds so gentle when Izaya has only known a beast in the flesh with bleached hair and anger that doesn't bruise much anymore. And combined with the fingers of a right hand on his left bruises of his face he can feel the careful touches of what Shizuo knows and _they_ don't. Didn't.

"F-Fine, Shizu-chan." In true Izaya fashion he gives an answer but can't muster the ability to smirk or laugh. He doesn't sound convincing and not even to himself can he fool. Shizuo doesn't call him on it like he normally does and he's not angry at Izaya but more at himself.

"I'm sorry. I'm so stupid." Shizuo doesn't continue on like earlier but the tone of his voice is more than Izaya wants to hear. Not repeats of the past that haunt his eyes when he's still panting to regain his breath and will the images to go away while Shizuo provides a distraction with the fingers on his bruised flesh. "I'm sorry for what I've done to you." Because _everything_ sounds too condescending and it's been a long day despite how early in the morning it is—six forty-five in the morning now. Still dark outside and Izaya thinks he can sleep forever if it would just let him. No such luck.

He swallows the disgusting salty taste of emotions. "It's fine." It comes out as a hoarse whisper when he forces the welling up noise in his throat that comes with the trademark stinging of his eyes—tells himself he's tired. That's all it is. Shizuo looks at him with brown eyes that see too much and ask so many questions at once. "But you..." Every moment of checking his empty phone for any sign of Shizuo because for some stupid reason he doesn't give up comes back as a haunting reminder that Shizuo has done more than just ignore him. And to go so far as to purposely—not even Izaya understands and he's not sure he wants to. But he needs this and Shizuo does too. Not that either will admit it.

"I didn't know what to say." Shizuo admits quietly and his fingers stop moving when the twitching muscles continue to jump under Izaya's skin against his ministrations. He knows not to press any further but the urge to is stronger than before (when he's realized he's failed Izaya, in that matter) so he keeps his hand stilled, resting on Izaya's cheek while the other's breathing is barely kept from expelling through his mouth. Attempting not to hyperventilate with all the sensations and being touched is—that comes from rape. Images of bruises in the shape of hands on Izaya's thighs, curving inward and Shizuo knows for a fact he hasn't known until now and it feels like he's the biggest lie in history. A partner—lover-chaser (can he be called that anymore?) who abandons the other when things get tough and he doesn't get his way. More like a child. "And I fucked up by refusing to talk to you. When I wanted to call you, I made the assumption that you wouldn't speak to me so I finally decided to come here. You can be as angry with me as you want." Though Izaya doesn't need permission for that. Not for anything.

Izaya shifts and resists the urge to swat off the hand on his face because he knows that while it starts to itch it's only temporary. "Not angry as much as disappointed, Shizu-chan. I didn't take you as the kind to give up so easily. Break into my apartment, yes, but to ignore me for a week or so..." Izaya clenches fingers into a fist and the itch starts to burn into his cheek when he can't take the hand off. "I know you're hotheaded, Shizu-chan, but that was just cold." He is never good with trying to put what he's thinking into thoughts that don't sound stupid or petty when emotions are involved in this game of _love_ and other drugs to take like a truth serum and lose his composure—why he does this and never stops is beyond boredom or fascination—long enough to feel embarrassment when he shouldn't for expressing himself no matter how much it makes Shizuo happy. Shizuo is a protozoic beast, anyway.

Shizuo gives a nod and when he makes fleeting eye contact with Izaya, his fingers brush the warmed skin and Izaya's throat bobs in a heavy swallow. Izaya can see he's angry and upset with himself but he's angry with Shizuo's behavior despite Shizuo's self-depreciating tendencies. Not angry and snarling with lips pulled like a rabid dog's, but more watching as Shizuo deals with information himself and Izaya doesn't interfere when he makes himself clear. "You're right. All I can say is that I'm sorry." He looks away and fingers trace the outline of Izaya's earlobe when he does. "And I won't ask you to forgive me, because that's just wasting your time." Seeing the beast tamed and domesticated like this, apologizing too, makes Izaya uncomfortable. He wants the reassuring confidence that Shizuo can exude and no matter how low his self-esteem is, it's always what he relies on when things go to shit. The constant comforting voice and the raised heartbeat in his own chest aren't supposed to be related but they are in the fact that Izaya is restless and without Shizuo it makes it worse when he tries to force himself back together. "I can say sorry for being such an asshole, but it won't make much of a difference with you. Just..." Shizuo's eyes are on his and this time he tries to focus on somewhere other than the softened look when this mushy relationship stuff is far too uncomfortable to process.

"Tell me what I can do, Izaya." And then repair the stitches that are bound to be oozing still after the irritation of hot water. A medical kit should be underneath Izaya's bed.

He's giving free reign. Usually he doesn't let Izaya have his way (has to force a greeting or an embrace from him sometimes) but now is different and giving all of the control to Izaya is a dangerously unexpected course he's willing to take. How Izaya handles it is up to him. As long as it's for the sake of keeping them together—Shizuo doesn't want to imagine otherwise—he's willing to do anything. Izaya, on the other hand, he doesn't ever know for sure. And from the bed and curled in on himself (with probably a pocketknife nearby) Shizuo hears him sigh through his nose. "How would I know?" he breathes and it sounds so unlike him when he is masked with layers of sarcasm and never knowing what he really means. "What to do—I don't deal with this every day, Shizu-chan." Shizuo thinks he hears Izaya's voice crack and his fingers rub behind an ear. "I deal with your stupidity and when you're nothing more than just a puppy that craves attention like a simple-minded amoeba..." He's trying to mask the pain of having to say that it hurts. Shizuo knows when the barbs start forming and moving faster off of his tongue before he has a chance to realize that they're petty and Shizuo can see right through them, despite the spike of anger that comes from being insulted. Still not used to it—but the lazy smile that spreads on Izaya's face (right before taking it off with a quick kiss and shoved away) is worth it.

"Why?" It is a gentle deference to asking what's the point of it all when Izaya's been kidnapped and raped after a misunderstanding and anxiety Shizuo knows is there behind the facade of calm. Shizuo thinks of what to answer that's bound to be wise and witty but knows that Izaya's snark is the unique thing he isn't sure he wants to compete with. But an answer—his own answer and not his anger's—comes up and to mind while easy to pass through the blood-brain barrier of rational over emotional. _Why him_ is what Izaya is asking when red eyes watch Shizuo and they're like danger signs and the many stop signs that may or may not fly through the air in a chase for fun. _Warning_ , they call, stay back and far away because behind them is too much to put into any logical sense when what this is doesn't make any sense at all. Izaya never understands why yet.

"Because I love you," Shizuo brushes a thumb over yellow on cheekbone, "flea." And then comes the tense coiling of muscles when Izaya's brain tries to over think and over complicate put A and B together and then solve from there. It doesn't make any logical sense—love—so when a logical mind tries to apply theory and reason all else fails and there's nothing to really prove that it means anything. "It's not going to be like that." He can read Izaya's thoughts faster than Izaya can hear them resounding in his head before he takes off running at this point. This won't be a repeat when Shizuo can hear the quiet puff of breaths passing through parted lips scabbing over again from a nasty habit of biting when he's nervous. "But I'm showing you what it is." _Love_. Angry denial and frankly blunt in the bark before the bite that has yet to come. Izaya won't—he's more behind the scenes instead of pushing himself out to get hurt.

"Stupid amoeba." Izaya murmurs and his head moves the slightest into Shizuo's hand when he's still twitching with the burn of contact. It's Shizuo, he knows this clearly and logically he's not supposed to let his heart skip beats of anticipating whatever it is that lies in his subconscious. "You have no tact." And because he can't say it yet doesn't mean that Shizuo doesn't already know. If it isn't the same then he wouldn't be here and this conversation wouldn't be happening. It's learning to look in the places he overlooks when he's not thinking clearly.

"I didn't hear a 'no'." Shizuo retorts, bending over Izaya and leaving room for him to move if he's startled by the sudden action and when eyes flicker to his with a curious expression hidden in a lazily amused face, he sees that Izaya's trying not to flinch. He knows better—they both know that. Noses brushing and Shizuo misses this (which he will stubbornly refuse to confess) when Izaya's smile breaks through and while it looks mocking simply because the flea is a condescending bastard, Shizuo knows better. Knows more than anyone else—more than _them—_ what each expression means.

It's only a simple brush of lips that press and dry already from being out of the water. Izaya's wet hair tickles against his cheek and he doesn't wait to make sure Izaya allows himself to not freeze when they share one simple kiss. This is as far as Shizuo is willing to go and touch is on an entirely different level and while he wants to, he has to resist.

But it's progress when Izaya's lips move against his.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, twistedlove. I do hope you enjoy this, and let me know if I should redo it. It's been bothering me for some reason... Oh well. Your call, my dear, and it's my second gift. Why is this so long though I don't know. I may or may not have an addiction to words. But for a sequel to this, is anyone interested? I've a few ideas. 
> 
> So, Tainted Love by Softcell is one of my favorite songs, inspiring the first work, Twisted Love. This time, it's Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper, where I love the lyrics:  
> "If you're lost you can look - and you will find me  
> Time after time  
> If you fall I will catch you - I'll be waiting  
> Time after time"
> 
> It's so fitting when I've been listening to it and wrote this. And thank you, Asbestos, for suggesting the shower idea.
> 
> Where would I be without all of you, I wonder. Most likely not writing fanfiction I'd suppose. Goodness, look how time has passed.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
